


There will be love

by Anloquen



Series: Destiel Case!Fics [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Trickster Gabriel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:32:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6461404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anloquen/pseuds/Anloquen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has messed up and this time he has messed up bad. In order to right his wrongs he will have to come to terms with his emotions and challenge his fear of chick-flick moments. Gabriel doesn't take any chances: he traps Dean in an alternate universe until Dean learns his lesson. Dean finds himself winding through... alternate universes described by fanfiction authors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coming out of the closet

"Stop!" Dean's exclamation echoed in a nave of a soaring cathedral flooded with light seeping through enormous stained glass windows, forming motley patches on white walls and floor.

The man slipped on marble tiling and nearly toppled over. He finally regained his balance after gliding on his soles for a good couple of meters, then stopped, bent in half and panting heavily.

A priest dressed in a chasuble dripping with gold embroidery turned around ever so slowly to send the intruder a snide smile.

"Is there something you would like to say?" he asked, rising one brow.

"Uhm, yeah..." Dean wheezed, struggling to catch his breath before he was finally able to straighten up, "Gabe?" he growled, "Wherever you are, show your ugly mug so I can kick it right now!"

The priest's smug face melted away in a blur; before Dean had time to blink he was looking at Gabriel's shit-eating grin that contrasted unsettlingly with his menacing look.

"Watch your language, boy. You're in the house of God..."

"House of God my ass," Dean shot him a glare before taking a better look around the church. To his relief and surprise, Castiel's beige trench coat was nowhere in sight. Instead, his gaze fell on a very real and very pissed Tessa, who was standing near the first row of seats, clenching her hands on an enormous bouquet of white roses. She was surrounded by a flock of funky bridesmaids, all dressed in fuchsia bubble dresses that matched tiny silk bows scattered across numberless layers of tulle of the Reaper's luxuriant wedding gown. Her chest, squeezed by a lavishly embroidered corset, was heaving in rapid breath. It took Dean a while to guess that there was another reason for her agitation besides this sudden interruption.

He frowned.

"Where's Cas?"

"I'm right here, " the angel's gravelly baritone resounded from somewhere near the entrance, making Dean swing around and nearly biff on slippery tiles again. There was a stir among the guests as Castiel was walking down the aisle; despite his jitters Dean couldn't help but chortle at the sight of his angel clad in an expensive-looking tuxedo, with a blue dianthus boutonniere and his hair neatly groomed perhaps for the first time in his existence.

"Are you... Are you really Cas? 'Cause I'm not spilling my guts here to one of this douche's puppets," Dean asked, eyeing his friend dubiously.

With a small wave of his hand and a tilt of his head Castiel returned to his original form of an unassuming scribe who happened to be struck by a lightning as he was walking through a hurricane. Twice.

Dean sighed with relief as an uncontrollable grin spread across his face.

"Good. We need to talk, man."

A theatrical 'errrkhm' sounded behind the hunter's back. He didn't turn his head, but he could hear Gabriel's footsteps in the chilly silence that fell in the cathedral as the Archangel was approaching Dean and Castiel. Gabriel clapped his hands.

"I've always wanted to do something like this," he chirped cheerfully, then puffed up to give his words the proper solemnity, "If anyone has reason for these two not to wed, speak now or forever hold your peace"

Dean rolled his eyes before he sent the elder angel a scowl over his shoulder.

"Seriously, Gabe? What is it now? _Sweet Home Alabama?_ That's so classy..."

"We'll talk about my taste later. Now, is there is anything you wish to say?"

Dean had to choke back a snarl before he could meet Castiel's calm, hopeful gaze. He took a deep breath...

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

13 days (or 3 minutes) earlier

Sam shifted a pile of books warily to make some space on a couch, then slumped onto it next to his brother, who tensed up in an anticipation of a lecture.

"If you're gonna schmooze about the fatal effects of coffee, whiskey and sleep deprivation you might as well save your breath. I should eat and sleep, but I won't, thank you very much," Dean gabbled angrily without taking his eyes off the book he was scrutinizing.

"Actually, I gave up on it a while ago. I came to tell you that there might be a case."

He wasn't sure if Dean's mutter was a sign of attention or exasperation, but he decided to go on.

"There might be a shifter in Minneapolis. Three similar cases of a stripper being sent out for a private party, robbing and killing the clients, then going missing."

There was no reaction other than a shrug.

"Yeah. Call Garth, he should be able to deal with a shifter."

"Dean. Do you read me? _Strippers_ ," the younger Winchester coaxed.

"I said call Garth. He'll be on cloud nine. Now will you please sod off? I have a case here if you haven't noticed."

Sam knitted his brows.

"Yeah, I have noticed..." he sighed, running his hands down his face; after a short moment that he needed to pluck up the courage he added: "Dean, what exactly do you think you are doing? You're gonna summon an archangel and then what?"

"First things first, Sammy. Haven't you learned it already?"

In spite of Dean's nonchalance Sam could see how knotted his muscles were. After a while of awkward silence, the older Winchester finally took his eyes of the yellowed parchment to look at his brother.

"Will you be a sweetheart and make me another coffee?" Dean asked with affected urbanity, "Yes? No? OK then, I'll make it myself..." he added, heading towards the kitchen. It was obviously a retreat in hope to end the conversation. What Dean hadn't expected was that he would meet Bobby, awkwardly frozen in a half-bow with a piece of stewed free range turkey in his hand. Dean walked in on him stealing his midnight snack from his own fridge that was full of organic, healthy food now that Sam was in charge of the house because Dean was too busy trying to do the impossible and Singer was too worried about his foster son to give a damn.

Bobby threw a startled glance at Sam who had followed his brother into the kitchen, then straightened up and cleared his throat with an intention to explain. It didn't take him long to realize that the younger Winchester absolutely ignored the fact that Bobby was about to breach the not-eating-after-8-PM-rule. He was too concerned with Dean, who looked even more panic-stricken than the nocturnal gourmand caught red handed.

Dean Winchester was cornered.

"Look, man," his brother tried again, "Perhaps it's time to accept that he is gone."

"He isn't _gone_ ," the older grunted with an almost childish pout, "I'm bringing him back."

"Listen... You're trying to summon Gabriel. OK, I get it. But what's next? How do you want to get Cas back?"

"I'll kill that gold-plated assface if that's what it takes."

"Dean, Gabe's not the problem here..." Seeing hurt and confusion in his brother's eyes, Sam added softly, "Haven't it occurred to you that perhaps Cas wanted to leave?"

"Why would he?" Dean bristled.

"Want the list of reasons to be alphabetical or chronological?" Bobby scolded halfheartedly, putting the turkey away. He'd lost his appetite anyway.

The older Winchester took a few deep breaths, considering what he had heard. Whatever was the outcome of this cogitation, it made him straighten up threateningly and clench his jaw.

"You know what?" he growled "I'm not talking about it. It's none of your business. You don't wanna help me? OK, I get it. I'll do it on my own and I'll do it my way," he stormed out of Bobby's house, slamming the door. Instead of walking out into a chilly summer night he found himself in a tiny, sparsely furnished room. The buzz of a cheap '90s style plastic alarm clock informed him that it was 6 AM.

He spun around to wrench the door, but now they opened to a little built-in closet. No matter how carefully he looked, there was no hidden passage back to Bobby's house.

There wasn't a passage to Narnia either for that matter.

"What the hell?" he muttered to himself.


	2. Beautiful, dirty, rich

Dean found himself surrounded by white, bare walls flooded with hard light of merciless southern sun. There were only a few pieces of austere furniture: a bed with a simple metal frame, a shelf holding a heap of moto magazines and a small nightstand on which the damned black-and-red alarm clock was still buzzing. Having eyed it dubiously, the hunter turned the alarm off. Nothing exploded. It was a good sign.

His hopes to learn more by looking out of the window were forlorn: he saw nothing but a patch of perfectly trimmed lawn, a small palm tree and a tall hedge. None of this things looked particularly deadly. Years of brushing against the supernatural and being tossed about various freaky realms facilitated accepting situations such as this, perhaps even got Dean used to it; not to mention that he had been expecting Gabriel to pull one of his tasteless pranks anyway. As annoyed as he was, he had to admit that he could have wound up in a much worse situation. A shrug and a scratch on the back of his head was the only reaction Dean could muster.

It wasn't until he scratched his belly and buttocks, yawning widely, that he realized he was wearing nothing but briefs.

"Oh, come on..." he drawled out, sending a sour scowl towards the ceiling. For unknown reasons he still couldn't get rid of the silly belief that placed angels on some unspecified orbit above his head.

No matter how much he beefed, though, he was still half-naked. There was no other option but to search the built-in closet he'd just come out from for something wearable. What he found there made him utter an inarticulate growl. The closet held five identical sets of clothing: a cheap black polyester suit and a white shirt. A separate rack held a selection of identical maroon ties and white cotton gloves. On side shelves he found some white underwear, ridiculously shiny patent leather shoes and a black peaked cap with a maroon band and a gold-colored cord.

"Gabe, I always knew you were a sucker for shlock, but for Christ's sake..." Dean nagged, pulling the clothes on with sheer disgust written all over his face.

Driven by a sudden upsurge of hope, Winchester decided to check if - by any chance - Gabriel decided to show mercy and provide him with any weapon. There was nothing but an empty leather suitcase under the bed, so Dean checked under the pillow. Instead of a gun or at least a knife he found a worn-out and battered polaroid photo. It took him a while to recognize the tanned, smiling man in aviator sunglasses, leaning on a midnight blue 1966 Lamborghini Miura.

_Cas_?

Well, that was a novelty.

With the photo in one pocket and a pair of gloves in the other, Dean warily opened the door, passed a narrow corridor...

... and found himself in the middle of an architectonic abomination. The first thing he noticed was a double curved staircase that occupied nearly half of a hangar-sized marble-tiled hall. The staircase's throughput suggested it had been designed to allow for a rapid evacuation of a high school, but it led onto a narrow gallery that stretched along the hall's longer wall and connected to a series of doors and corridors that must have led to further parts of the mansion. Both the staircase and the gallery were framed by an elaborate metal railing of a really curious color.

_Gold-plated_? Dean thought to himself, cocking his head. He took a look around, then sneaked to the railing in order to surreptitiously scratch one of the yellow, metallic, shiny leaves. Damn sure the railing wasn't gold-plated; it emboldened Dean a little. He proceeded to check out rows of life-sized and oversized statues of naked nymphs or godesses or whatever, as well as heroes and gods. He assumed they wouldn't be made of real alabaster, but this time it was wrong.

He was just starting to wonder why the gods' junks were so tiny when he heard quick, thumping footsteps and before he had time to react he was assaulted with a rag by a huge, middle-aged gorgon.

"What do you think you are doing here, Dean Winchester?" she squawked, looking at him with an admonitory frown, "How many times do I tell you? Breakfast at quarter past six! And quit gawking at the statues. We don't need your weird deviation in this house. This is a respectable house!" she herded him towards a door at the end of the same corridor Dean had emerged from, accentuating every sentence with a blow of the wet rag, "Young master will be up in fifteen minutes! I am certainly not lying your sorry bum out of trouble again!"

The Winchester was forced to sit down by a chunky wooden table in what seemed to be a huge kitchen; his fleeting glances lurched from one face to another. There were two young girls dressed in a decent version of a french maid outfit he knew so well. None of them graced him with a glance. They kept spooning white-ish glop from their bowls. Dean had an impression that the girls seemed familiar, although he couldn't really put his finger on it. Perhaps... he had a vague reminiscence that included leather thigh high boots, ice cubes and hot chilli sauce... or maybe it was mustard?

His ruminations were interrupted when, to Dean's horror, a bowl of oatmeal was placed in front of him. His gaze followed a plump arm of the woman who had clobbered him and now apparently intended to continue the torture by force-feeding. He finally recognized her, though in a blue uniform, an apron and a white bonnet she hardly resembled herselt. The hunter almost choked on the oatmeal.

"Missouri?"

"What are you talking about, young man?"

The maids finished their breakfast and evacuated from the kitchen. Their rush spelled trouble. Dean didn't like it. He didn't like it at all.

"Are you drunk?" the woman frowned, standing next to Dean with her arms akimbo.

"Missouri, what's going on here? Are you a part of this show or..."

"Blow," Missouri leaned in to bring her face close to Dean's.

"What? What the hell are you talking..."

" _Blow_!"

Having no choice Dean blew feebly; Missouri uttered a short, half-satisfied grunt.

"Sober..." she muttered to herself, pursing her lips.

Suddenly the hunter found himself being felt with her warm, large palms; his fever checked, his eyelids pulled fully open and his face turned towards light. Unable to find anything alarming she plopped down on a chair next to Dean.

"Are you sure you are good to drive today? Be honest with me!" she wagged her finger at the man, "I am not letting young master get hurt because of your vagaries."

Dean was about to blurt another question, but he bit his tongue in time. He had no craving for another round of folksy diagnosis, so he just nodded half-heartedly before finishing his breakfast in a few hastily swallowed spoonfuls. Missouri seemed content with the answer; she gestured him to leave, but as he was about to pass the door, she cleared her throat loudly.

"What?"

She eyed him meaningfully; Dean didn't decipher the meaning, though.

"What?" he repeated louder.

"Are you going to present yourself to young master in this condition?"

Having noticed Winchester's loss Missouri sighed, then proceeded to set his hair and rub remnants of oatmeal from the corners of his lips.

"You have always been a slob, boy, but today it takes the cake,"she grumped under her breath, adjusting Dean's tie and straightening up his jacket, "Why mister Singer hired you is beyond me."

She obviously failed to notice Dean's dumbfounded expression when he gaped at her.

"All right, now don't forget the gloves. And run along. What are you waiting for?" she shooed him out of the kitchen unceremoniously. Dean had no choice but to walk back to that Versaille-knockoff hall.

"Damn, what's going on here..." he murmured to the group of alabaster nakeys, "do you understand anything of it?"

His look glossed over the appalling gallery until it fell on a small figure clad in black, white and gold livery, leaning casually against one of the largest marble monstrosities and sucking on a lollipop. Dean immediately felt his blood boil.

"You sucker," he roared, starting up to Gabriel, "what's this crap supposed to mean?"

He groaned in rancor and confusion when an invisible force stopped him a couple of feet away from the archangel.

"Oh my..." he mocked Dean's futile attempts to punch him on the face, "Somebody help me!"

The hunter had to accept his defeat, though he was still steaming with anger when Gabriel approached him, smirking and gesturing widely with his heart-shaped lollipop.

"You mean this?"

"You know damn well what I mean, douche nozzle. Where's Cas?"

Gabriel clucked his tongue.

"Poor, poor alpha male. What are you gonna do when you can't just kick and yell your way to what you want? You see, there is one itsy bitsy hiccup. Your tantrums don't impress me."

The hunter was still glowering at Gabriel with no intention to chaffer. The archangel shrugged.

"You can have a fairy-tale tryst with your prince charming in a minute, but first, tell me Dean-o," he leaned in to whisper into Winchester's ear, "are you familiar with the term _fanfiction_?"

Dean's face went from livid to deadly pale in less than a second.


	3. California king bed

So apparently Dean was a chauffeur hired by an obscenely rich family that owned a chain of car showrooms. The head of the family - honorable mister Robert Singer - had two children from his first marriage. His second wife, Pamela, was much younger than him, but their marriage was a result of true love. Obviously.

Driving the heir of the Singer's fortune to the local airport was Dean's first job. Of course he could do that. Piece of cake. There wad no reason to hurry, because the plane would wait for as long as they needed. Private jets tend to do that.

The hunter was toying with the car keys, standing almost at attention next to a black Rolls-Royce Phantom. Every curse he muttered under his breath echoed in the huge underground garrage. The fact that he didn't take a stroll through the chamber to appreciate the collection of vintage sport cars and limousines spoke volumes about the state of his mind. He felt that his fingers were getting colder and stiffer every second, almost to the point where merely holding the keys was difficult. So far there were no squealing teenagers groping him or trying to make him make out with a guy, but the idea of him being a chauffeur was more than disturbing. He'd watched too much porn not to know where it could lead.

Oh, yes. Young master was named James Singer, but for some reasons he preferred to go by a nickname. Friends called him Cas.

Dean's head jerked up and the car keys landed on the floor with a dry clank when he heard footsteps. Winchester swallowed loudly, having noticed the familiar dark-haired man approaching him at a brisk pace. He managed to almost-keel over and almost-retreat a couple of times before Cas finally stopped, inches from Dean's chest. The expression of his face was inscrutable when he was steadily examining the hunter. Winchester wasn't sure what it meant, though he could have sworn that he spotted this ever so familiar affection in the angel's unearthly blue eyes.

After a moment that felt like a lifetime Cas's lips budged in a barely noticeable smile and his head tilted in that inimitable, birdlike gesture.

"Hello, Dean," he rasped, taking that ridiculous cap off his friend's head.

Dean's sigh of relief must been audible everywhere within a radius of three miles.

"Cas, man, do you know what's going on here?"

"In fact I do know, Dean," the Seraph answered, "I suggest you drive us to somewhere nice so that we can talk."

It was a simple task. Dean could do that. Almost.

"Somewhere nice? How do I know where's to go? I've been here for like an hour."

Castiel seemed to be amused by his own thoughts.

"I presume that in this world everywhere is nice."

Dean scratched the back of his head and shrugged, guessing that he would never get angelic sense of humor.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

"Dean, please. I do understand your irateness, but you have to try to understand my situation. The fact that Gabriel does not wish to confine me does not mean that I have any way of influencing his decisions regarding you. Besides, he managed to convince me that it will be for the best."

Dean snorted angrily, walking back and forth along a small lay-by over a cliff on which he'd parked the Rolls-Royce. Cas had been right - the world created by Gabriel was nauseatingly idyllic. Soft, warm breeze carried the scent of the ocean that shimmered and hummed at the foot of reddish rocks. Palm trees and cedars soughed softly. There was no cloud on the azure sky, but the sun wasn't torrid. A part of Dean's mind wondered why there was no table with a selection of colorful treats and drinks served in coconuts with those ridiculous little paper umbrellas anywheget in sight.

Nonetheless, he was mainly pissed.

"Best? For what? Giving me nightmares?"

Cas responded to his friend's glare with a sigh.

"This reality is not devised to torment you. My brother intends to teach you a lesson."

"Oh, 'cause that sounds so much better," gnarled Dean.

"I admit the difference may be too subtle to discern from a certain point of view. Still, following Gabriel's guidelines will prove beneficial to you."

"Damn it..." Dean's voice became deeper and throaty, "By the way why is he suddenly dead set on mind-fucking me, huh? I'd get it if you wanted to nail me to the wall, but him? What is it, some kind of a blood feud? Brotherly solidarity? He doesn't even like you."

"It is personal, yes, but not in the way you think," there was less leniency and and more exasperation in Cas's voice every second.

Dean came to an abrupt halt. He turned slowly to squint at the angel.

"Wait, Cas. How do I know it's not you doing this? Gabe was dead... How come he just went back?"

"Why would I do this?" Castiel challenged.

"Dunno, maybe 'cause I was an asshole? I get that you're pissed and you probably wanna smite me, I mean _I'd_ smite me, but man..."

"Dean. Enough!" suddenly the Seraph's voice was powerful, deep and sonorous, reverberating clearly over the hum of waves and the sough of wind. Winchester instinctively took a step back. From Cas's stance - jaw set, fist clenched, shoulders squared - and a slight tremor of his muscles Dean could tell how angry the angel was and how hard he fought to keep his power in check.

"I said that I forgave you. I don't see why you refuse to believe me," he heaved a deep sigh to come down a bit, "This is Gabriel's plan. He explained his motivation to me and I agree with most of it. It is not only about me. It's about Sam, about Gabriel. It is about you calling him a coward and encouraging him to act."

His words seeped slowly to the hunter's consciousness.

"Woah," Dean breathed, "Are you telling me that your eternal, infinitesimally powerful big bro has a small dick syndrome? That he's so touchy that he'll create a whole new world just to get back at me for calling him names? Geezus, I made this toffee-nosed twat do the right thing for once and the first thing he has on his mind after coming back from counting worms is messing with me?"

"This is exactly what I am trying to explain. Gabriel doesn't want to punish you. He wants to return the favor. Try to get something out of it."

They stood immobile for a while, inches from each other, until Castiel capitulated and ended the stare down.

"Please," he added more cordially, "You will come to no harm. I don't like his methods either, but there is no help for it. Archangels are extremely willful."

"Dude, I've already..." Dean was interrupted by a rustle and a rush of air. He didn't even have to look around to know what it meant. He gestured widely in helpless annoyance.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

Although he was not sure if other people in Gabriel's fantasy word had a sense of time (or even if they existed when he wasn't looking) Dean spent an hour or so driving aimlessly before returning to the mansion to make the cover-up story of driving Cas to an airport more plausible. The Royce wasn't Impala, but taking slightly banked turns while he was speeding on the road thoughtfully provided by Gabriel let him let off some steam and wrap his head around this new situation. He guessed that if Camp Gabe wouldn't require dying multiple times, being tied to a ball-whacking machine or talking about genital herpes, he could actually survive it. At least he wanted to believe so.

Having parked the limousine Dean walked back to the mansion along a wide, curved marble walkway flanked by lemon trees, cypresses and lavender. He was so lost in thought that he noticed nothing until he bumped into a warm and oddly familiar mass. The only thing that shocked him was that the mass smelled of suntan oil and Axe.

"Sammy?"

"I told you not to call me like that," the man opposed coldly. He looked exactly like Dean's brother, save for the fact that he was tanned, had his whole body shaved clean (which stood out, because he was wearing nothing but surf shorts and flip-flops) and his hair bound in a tight, sleek ponytail. Plus, he spoke with a recognizable Hispanic accent, "My name is Samuél."

Sam-Samuél walked away, followed by Dean's dumbfounded stare. Winchester snapped out of it upon hearing a clink of teeth against a hard candy behind his back. He swung around with his fists ready, but he hit thin air. Gabriel reappeared a second later slightly further from the hunter.

"What did you do to him?" Dean bellowed, ready to charge again.

"Relax before you develop a seizure, mister rabies" Gabriel smiled over his lolly, "I wouldn't haul your bro's ass here. I like Samsquatch too much. This one here is a dummy. Dummy-Sammy. Heh."

"Don't push your luck."

"Or what, you big walking talking wiener?" the archangel crossed his arms.

Dean exhaled angrily through gritting teeth.

"All right, Jigsaw," He tried to unruffle a bit; he was still in high dungeon, yet he understood that scuffling would do him no good, "What is this... Dunno, place? World?"

A sleazy grin spread on Gabriel's face.

"It is a so-called alternate universe. One of many, actually. This one is about rich people. You know. Subtle dominance. Or not so subtle. The-Bold-and-the-Beautiful kind of thing," he reveled in Dean's ill-concealed panic, "Fear not, Dean-o. This is one of the least twisted ideas I stumbled upon. I saved the best for later. I'll take it slow, cause it'd be pity if I gave you apoplexy right at the start. Baby steps."

"And why exactly am I here?" Winchester fought the sudden dryness in his throat, "What's the deal?"

"The deal is," Gabriel purred with fake suaveness as he was approaching Dean "that I let you go back to your world when you stop being a sophomoric, bipolar, emotionally constipated, insecure, narcissistic, masochistic, uncommunicative, self-loathing, self-defeating, self-centered, screwed up coochie."


	4. Material girl

"You know, son, that I am very tolerant and open-minded..." honorable mister Robert Singer spoke calmly from his throne - that is, from his huge leather rotating chair.

Dean had to focus real hard on pretending that he was listening. Monstrous hangover was making his eyeballs pulsate with dull pain and his guts twist; despite his best efforts he couldn't keep focused on the man on the other side of an oak desk.

"I would be a hypocrite if I said that I never liked carefree fun. I used to party when I was young, too. Still, I knew my limits..." SInger droned on in a calm, even voice.

There was something odd about him. Dean squinted, tilting his head. Everything was hazy. Bobby was so not-Bobby-ish... What was he saying, anyway?

"Everyone is aware that I started from repairing wrecked cars on my uncle's backyard. When I earned my first real money it was enough to buy my friends a couple of drinks so that they would stop laughing at me for being poor and never going out with them. Do you know what I did?"

Perhaps it was that Bobby wasn't wearing his baseball cap. His hair looked funny. Like there was... more of it than Dean remembered.

"I invested in a better set of tools. I could work more efficiently, earn more. And here I am after 30 long years. My children will know no hunger or humiliation. They went to the best colleges. They will do whatever they want with their lives."

Was it a toupee?

"I had no degree, no assets, but do you know what I had?"

No, it wasn't. Gazillionaires never wear toupees. Of course it wasn't. It was hair transplant that corrected his receding hairline.

"I had a plan. I had perseverance and self-control. I knew my limits. I knew when I could let myself rest and rock the house, but I also knew when I had to make a push."

Dean squinted, trying to catch as much as he could from Bobby's rant over the excruciating buzz in his head.

"So I understand that everyone can have a bad day, but son, if you want to achieve anything, you have to know your limits. You can't get drunk and oversleep every time you feel downbeat!"

Bobby looked really weird. He acted really, really weird. Come on, everybody knew that getting drunk was exactly the thing to do when feeling downbeat. Catching as much sleep as possible was a must.

"You need self-discipline to overcome your problems. Improvidence and indolence are two things I cannot tolerate. Not in this house."

Those chipmunk flabby cheeks were gone too. Had he had a plastic surgery?

"One day you will understand that I am doing this for your own good. Now, you can stay here for a couple of days until you find a place to live, but you're fired."

Uh oh...

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

Being unemployed proved to be a perfect situation after all. With a bottle of shandy (it was unmanly, but perfect for hangover) in one hand and a cheese-and-ham sandwich in the other Dean stood on a small terrace, watching Samuél trim hedges, sweep dried leafs off sandstone paved passages and clean the swimming pool. The tall, tanned man was still wearing nothing but surf shorts, so Winchester was starting to wonder if his contract included parading half-naked all the time; his bronze skin drenched in suntan oil glistened in the sun. It was astonishing how little it took to turn Dean's awkward, lanky, ungainly brother into a cheesy porn cliche. Damn, he had been there for a little more than 24 hours and he was already starting to miss his giant nerdy brother.

Speaking of porn: the hunter was not the only person watching the handsome gardener. From his viewpoint Dean spotted Becky - Rebecca Singer - skulking behind a rhododendron shrub, ogling her father's employee. She sneaked up to him, wrapped her arms around his waist, running her hands up his bare chest. Dean was outraged until he saw Samuél turn around, return the embrace and lean in to kiss the girl with an authentic smile of joy.

Oh, so it was _this_ kind of fanfiction.

Dean didn't have time to realize the magnitude of his relief when he felt a smack on his bottom and heard flirtatious purring next to his ear.

"How are you, tiger?"

He jerked away from the source of the sound, but to no avail. Pamela's bony hand was still gripping his buttock and when he spun around, she pulled herself even closer in the process, twisting her arm around him.

"Jezus Christ, what do you want from me, woman?"

"Oh, you're playing hard to get... How adorable!" she teased, squeezing Dean's ass so tight that her chunky golden rings probably gave him bruises, "I hear that you're unemployed from today."

Winchester nodded feebly in hope that agreeableness would gain him some freedom. Indeed, Pamela loosened her hold enough for Dean to take a step back, though her hands were still on his hips.

"I've always thought you were a gorgeous hunk, baby..." the woman kept cajoling; there was a moment when she actually sniffed Dean's neck, "but cheating on my husband with a chauffeur would be so plebeian. Now that my dear Robert has fired you, how about... My bedroom, in twenty?" Pamela licked her lips suggestively.

Having regained control over his body, Dean cleared his throat, then gently, but decidedly took Pamela's hands off of himself.

"Uhm... Pamela... I mean Mrs Singer... I don't think it's the best idea."

She let go with a theatrical pout, perhaps hoping that behaving like a teenage girl would make her more alluring. In any other set of circumstances Winchester would find this strategy highly effective.

"What ifff..." she began again, biting her lips suggestively as she prolonged the last sound, "I convince my stepson to have a threesome? I know you want it..."

Dean's eyes widened in horror.

"No! Geezus! For tit's sake! No!"

And that was it. For the first time in his life Dean ran away from a possible hot date with an obscenely rich MILF.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

Like cures like. Dean relied on this old folk wisdom a little too confidently, because around 6PM his hangover was gone, but he was already slightly tipsy.

Samuél shushed him angrily when Dean rolled into the staff's break room. Wichester gave him a curious look. The gardener was sitting at a table with headphones on, staring intently at his laptop's screen and murmuring under his breath; his focused look darted between two windows as he was typing discontinuously. He looked like he was... studying?

Winchester sat at the other end of the table, waiting for the other man to finish whatever he was doing. Not even five minutes had passed when Samuél closed the laptop, took the headphones off and sent Dean an apologetic smile.

"Sorry," he said, "We have to be logged in and work in real time during sessions."

"You what?"

"Dean, I have told you about this. I thought you would remember."

One thing wasn't changed in this world - Sam's sour grimace. The similarity to real Sam gave Dean the creeps.

"You can tell me again. I had a really bad day. Wouldn't mind a chat."

"I got enrolled for cultural anthropology on UF," the gardener announced flatly.

"And you..." Dean pointed at the laptop, frowning in disbelief.

"Yes. E-learning is a thing. I know you are a little backward, but you should be familiar with it. It's 21st century."

"But why would you do that?"

"Because," the taller man sighed, "I don't want always to be a gardener. Besides, it's about Becky. I mean miss Rebecca..."

When Samuel was speaking about her, a dreamy smile brightened up his face. He was in love.

Damned ratfink was in love.

"What about her?" Winchester asked more amicably.

The smile was beclouded by an expression of dejection.

"Well, she... We... Uhm," suddenly Samuél looked straight into Dean's eyes, "May I confide something to you?"

The hunter rested his elbows on the table.

"Sure. Get it off your chest, man. You look like you need it."

"You see..." Samuel began insecurely, "We want to get married."

Dean choked on his beer.

"Why would you do _that_?!"

Seeing hurt flash through Samuél's face the hunter realized his mistake.

"Easy. I mean that's great. I just thought you were more like, you know. A sex slave..." he floundered, trying to apologize, "Shit. No. Don't mind me. Apparently I browse the wrong part of the Internet."

Samuél accepted the apology with a sigh.

"The thing is that I don't know if it's so great. Just look at her. Miss Rebecca Singer. Heiress to a fortune, living like a princess. What can I give her? What if mr Singer disowns her? She'll become mrs Llamas-Gabilondo with no chance for a life she knows. No chances for wealth, fame..." Samuel's voice was gradually trailing off. His earnestness infected Dean.

"Dude, are you sure she wants it?"

"Yes, but..."

"Then there are no buts," Dean rolled his eyes, "It's not like you're lying to her. She's got a brain too. She knows who you are and what you can give her. If she wants to junk her little royal heaven for you, it's her choice. Go for it, man."

Contours of the room blurred; a faint, low buzz drowned out all sounds. Dean felt dizzy. The next second he was sitting on a trunk of an uprooted tree in a dark, humid northern forest.


	5. Giggle at the ghostly

The first thing that hit him was the smell. A faint, but opressive stench of decay and death; of rotting trees and mucid soil, mixed with his own stink: body odor, a tang of oily, sweat-soaked denim, gunpowder, cosmoline and crude oil. He flinched at the thought of walking through this boggy carpet of dead moss that was festering on sodden ground. Usually he had nothing against getting dirty, but there was something appalling about this forest. Something sinister and distressing.

"Come," Gabriel urged from behind Dean's back. The man didn't turn to face him, "we have to reach a shelter before it gets dark."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

It took Dean a while to get over the strange sensation of being defiled or infected by the sick, dying forest as he was following the archangel in a fatiguing walk. The path wound between uprooted trees and landslides. There was something eerie about this place; something surreal, but disturbingly familiar. Like reminiscing something without certainty if it had been dream or reality.

Gabriel waited patiently for a good moment to speak.

"You know, I'm proud of you, Dean-o. Really. I thought it would take you longer," he began, not looking at his companion.

"What would take longer?" Dean snapped, focused on getting as little of the smelly, putrid mud into his shoes as he could.

"Digging the game."

"I scored a point or something?" Winchester sneered, "When?"

"Oh, so you didn't get it," Gabriel tilted his head and clucked his tongue, "My bad. It's about what you said to poor Samuel."

The Winchester stopped to ponder, frowning and looking at Gabriel askance.

"And that's it? I say some random sappy crap and you tick a box and zap me to a next world?"

"Exactly."

The archangel turned around; his expression was inscrutable for a moment before he threw his head back and burst into laughter.

"Just kidding. I can read your mind, so don't even think about cheating," he explained, pointing a finger at Dean, "You really get it, you just don't about know it yet."

They resumed their walk - Gabriel easy and cheerful, Dean het up and frustrated. After a couple of minutes the shorter man spoke again, gesturing widely.

"Anyway, how do you like it?"

"What?" Winchester barked grimly.

"The worlds. The ideas. You know, the surname for instance," Gabriel turned to face Dean and walked backwards for a while, "Don't tell me you didn't get it," he frowned, having noticed no spark of recognition, "Oh, come on. Hel-lo, gun manufacturers? Winchester? Llamas-Gabilondo? Rings a bell? No? Geez, I never hoped you were a genius, but really..." he concluded with an inarticulate - or maybe Enochian - mutter and an eyeroll.

Before Dean could come up with a retort, the sight that emerged from behind a group of trees stopped him in tracks. He had suspected it for some time, but Impala's wreck and the faded wooden gate with an inscription that read _Camp Chitaqua_ left no doubts.

"What the hell is this?"

"So now you can't even read?" squawked Gabriel.

Dean took a step back.

"No. No way. I'm not going back there."

"Yes, you are."

"Fuck you, Gabe. Seriously? Cribbing ideas from Zachariach? Dude, I didn't think you'd sink so low as that."

"It's not me who cribbed the idea and this is one of the best universes. Second on my list of personal favs. Anyway, you know it was a vision, not real timetravel?"

The archangel rose his eyebrows; his poise - a bit less disdainful, a little more attentive - convinced Dean to pick up the gauntlet. He took a couple of deep breaths to calm down.

"It took me a while, but I got it," he admitted wearily, sitting down on a stump near the path.

"What tipped you off?"

Winchester pursed his lips, wondering.

"Lucifer. He was too sane. That junkless ape didn't even have the imagination to create a proper basket case."

"And?"

A long, jerky sigh was the only answer. Gabriel waited for a while before he magicked up another stump for himself to sit down next to the hunter.

"Oh, don't mind me," he taunted, "Keep talking. I'm getting used to your verbal diarrhea. I've spent some time in silence, you know. It's actually nice to listen to your prattle for a change. I always appreciate a good chat with people who speak their minds like you. Just, you know, watch your breath. We don't want you to suffo..."

"Damnit! All righ, have it your way," Winchester surrendered, "It was Cas. There was something off about him. He was... I don't know. Too unmoved, cut up. This... Apathy. I know the guy. I know he'd never throw in the towel like this. And this whole love guru thing? Orgies? That just wasn't him."

"How do you know?"

Though Dean would never admit it, his heart skipped a beat when he realized they were actually getting somewhere.

"Casual sex is not his cup of tea," he explained, fighting his own shame.

In response Gabriel rolled his eyes; no, he rolled his whole head before he sent Dean a dark look.

"Du-uh..."

The hunter was poleaxed.

"So? Wasn't it the big lightbulb over my head?" he growled.

"M-hm. Not yet."

Having stood up, Winchester started to pace back and forth edgily.

"Damnit. What do you want me to say?"

"Whatever you fell like."

Dean snorted.

"Want me to burst out crying ? Or write a poem? Buy him flowers, tattoo _I'm a sorry asshole_ on my forehead, what? What do you want?"

With the last word he landed a blow on Gabriel's jaw. To his shock the figure broke with a dry crackle, revealing a heap of colorful candies that spilled from the archangel's cracked head.

The real Gabriel appeared next to the pinata a split second later; he answered Dean's scowl with an apologetic, innocent smile.

"Just a weird connotation. Lucifer being a bag of dicks. Me being a bag of sweets and goodies, and... Oh, gimme a break. Not _all_ of my jokes have to be brilliant!"

Dean just exhaled furiously, not intending to dignify Gabriel's excuses with an answer.

"Get me out of here now."

"Nay. No can do."

"I said get me out of here, you puffy asshead. You have no right to judge me. It's between me and Cas and he gets it. _He gets it_. He doesn't need me to be perfect, so fuck off!"

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

Dean hardly registered how reality around him melted again to solidify in the shape of an underground garage; he didn't care. All he was aware of was the rage swelling in him, barely contained, a hot pressure in his chest that hurt almost physically.

"You sonofabitch!" he bellowed into the dark, "I had a shitty life, but I had it. Nobody asked you to stick your bib in. I wasn't good but I knew what I was doing. Nobody cares that I am a fucked up disaster and sure as hell I don't care either so you can go _The Swan_ on someone else. You can't fuck with people's lives like this. Fuck off to your candy Wonderland and leave me the hell alone!"

Gabriel's silhouette loomed in the dim, cool light; Dean lurched forward, readying his fists...

-xXx-xXx-xXx-

He lurched forward and landed on all fours, but didn't feel any pain or even impact. A quick look around left him thunderstruck.

The world around was nearly two-dimensional, with separate plains emerging from behind one another like cheap theater props or paper screens. Everything was just represented in simplified images, painted in nauseatingly pastel colors and outlined in black. Bright green hills were house-sized. Trees had single balls of leaves instead of crowns and there were flat, impossibly red apples stuck onto them. Dean's eyes and brain took their sweet time adjusting to the change before he could attempt to stand up. It proved almost impossible, as if his spine suddenly went stiff and oddly shaped. Dean tried to palpate his own body to check what was wrong. It was impossible too.

He had no arms.

A bright, beaming shape descended from the baby blue sky that was studded with small, flat, identically shaped clouds. After a couple of seconds Dean recognized a six-winged golden horse with a bright white horn. When the alicorn came closer Winchester was able to kind of recognize his... its... face.

The sight was so ludicrous that Winchester forgot to continue his effing and blinding.

"What the fuck is this supposed to... "

"Why don't you see for yourself?" Gabe cooed with noticeable amusement, gesturing towards a nearby pond with his head. Something crunched in his mouth as he was chewing continuously. Sugar cubes?

Dean took a few shaky steps to approach the pond. Though it was physically and geometrically impossible, he saw his own reflection or rather his side view in a perfectly still surface of perfectly opaque, blueish water.

He was a horse.

A cartoon horse.

For the second time in his life the hunter was utterly and undeniably horror-stricken. Every instinct was telling him to run or fight, but his body was petrified and out of control. He had no choice but stand there, gaping at the simplified image of a beige stallion with green eyes, flaxen mane and tail, an antiposession-symbol-shaped birthmark on the haunch and a pinkish horseshoe-shaped scar on the left front leg. He looked like he was made of play-doh.

 _Jesus Christ,_ he didn't have hoofs, just blunt studs.

He shrieked, knocked out of the shell shock by a sudden appearance. Next to him stood a black deer with bright, silvery eyes shaded by long eyelashes. Somehow Winchester knew that the deer was female, and even... kinda... sexy?

"Hi, Dean..." the animal's voice was alluring; a bit husky, but overall melodious and deep, "wanna ride me?"

In his confusion Dean had a hard time putting two and two together until it eventually clicked. It wasn't a deer. It was an antelope.

It was the straw that broke the camel's back. Winchester's brain simply stopped processing new information and the absurdity of the situation, replacing the welter of thoughts with a detached, a tad unhealthy quietude.

"Ha. Ha. Fuck you." he mumbled blankly.

"My poor, little Dean-o," Alicorn-Gabriel begun in a pontifical tone, "If I wanted to mess with you, I could give you the worst possible bad trip just like that," he twitched weirdly; Dean realized that the archangel wanted to illustrate the speech by snapping his fingers, but he had no fingers. The thought made the hunter snicker in bitter satisfaction.

"You see?" Gabriel continued, "I wanna help you. I don't know why, I mean you are obviously not worth the trouble, but perhaps this is just how I roll. Do you get it now? Will you listen to me?"

Winchester confirmed with a faint, uncertain nod.

"Come on, Dean-o. Let's get outta here. I don't like this world either."


	6. Pa,pa,paparazzi

Dean found himself in a large, modernly furnished hotel room in the twinkling of an eye. Luckily, everything seemed real this time, though not necessarily normal: everything was large, leather or vinyl or velvet and mostly black or in various shades of gray and silver. Winchester's body felt mostly all right, save for a prickling numbness of his legs, which he attributed to the fact that they'd been the hind legs of a cartoon stallion a few seconds before.

One thing that caught his sight was a huge poster - a heavily photoshopped picture of a punk rock band performing among fireworks and fake fog. The frontman was captured running towards the audience; though the dynamic poise and violent light made him look surreal, there was something oddly familiar about him. Dean had to come closed to take a better look.

He stumbled on something hard and squarish; he staggered, struggling to regain balance, but his other foot encountered an obstacle too, so he faceplanted gracelessly onto a fuzzy carpet. During arduous and equally graceless attempts to stand up he realized two things.

These weren't any free-standing objects that he had tripped over. He was wearing platform boots. Black, knee-high studded leather platform boots.

The numbness of his legs was caused by the same factor that prevented him from standing up in the usual manner: extremely tight pants.

The only thing that prevented him from taking these ridiculous boots off was the fact that he had no idea how to do it - the straps and buckles proved to be imitations, there were no shoestrings or zippers. Being a Winchester he couldn't give up without a fight. After a couple of failed attempts that left him bruised, frustrated and with an unidentified piece of clothing invading his butt crack he finally developed an effective way of working his own body in this torturous outfit. He even managed to make a few almost-steady steps. By the time he was ready to set forth on the journey to the other side of the room he had already guessed it, nonetheless he approached the poster to make sure. Yes, it was him.

Dean felt his own head warily, without much hope that Gabriel proved merciful this time. Of course he didn't. Winchester apparently had a mohawk and some piercing just like the fake-Dean in the picture.

Tentative knocking on the door interrupted his self-examination. The door opened slowly and a small, weedy figure snaked inside, bowing in reverence. It took Dean some time to recognize him because of the black suit, sunglasses (Indoors? Seriously?) and a big, black-and-blue wireless earpiece.

"Garth?"

"Oh, sir, yes, thank you. Thank you. You know my name. I didn't expect it..." the little man babbled, staring at Dean and still curtsying from time to time, "Please, sir, we need to go now. The car is waiting."

The hunter figured that following this cue was the only sensible move, though he balked at the thought of interacting with people or merely exiting the room while walking still felt more like riding a unicycle. With skittish guinea pigs instead of pedals. On a tightrope.

"In the meantime, sir," Garth handed him a pink fur-bound notebook while they were both waiting for an elevator, "I know the situation is difficult. I don't want to seem impolite or intrusive, but my daughter is your huge fan, so if you please..." he trailed off, looking at Dean with hope and trepidation.

Apparently he played a kind of music that appealed to underage girls. Good to know.

Winchester cursed under his breath, taking the notebook and a scented pen from Garth's shaky hands. He had no idea if his name in this world remained unchanged. His instinct was telling him that Dean Winchester was not a catchy name fit for a rock star.

"Please, write for Alex, mr Blade," Garth whispered, "I mean, mr Michaels."

Dean did a mental eyeroll while scribbling _For Alex, never give up - Blade Michaels_ , because seriously, it wasn't even remotely funny. And _never give up_ seemed like an universal positive message.

Garth twittered all the time during the ride in the elevator and a walk through an underground garage towards a black limousine with tinted windows.

"Thank you, thank you so much, mr Michaels. I'm so glad that I could finally meet you. It's wonderful that I'm Jimmy's replacement," words died in the little man's mouth; he seemed mortified by what he had just said, "I mean of course what happened to him is a tragedy. No, it's not a tragedy, not yet. Oh God. I mean it won't be a tragedy, because he will be fine. I'm sure he will be fine. It's just that... Plase, don't fire me, mr Michaels..."

"Why would I fire you?"

Garth didn't have time to answer; one of the windows rolled down and Gabriel's head popped out.

"Hop in, kid. Busy day today," he ordered.

"What the hell is going on?" Dean asked grimly after taking his place on the back seat between the archangel and - if he'd figured out Garth's role correctly - his bodyguard.

"Actually, a lot. Now we're heading to Harvelle's Heaven to get you prepared for the photo-shoot that starts at 1 pm. Then you're giving an interview and meeting the finalists of this year's edition of..."

"What's Harvelle's Heaven?" Winchester horned in.

"A beauty salon. Finalists of this year's..." Gabriel repeated, unruffled.

"What?" snapped Dean.

"A beauty sa..."

"What?"

"A beauty... Oh, come on!"

It was one of the strangest things Dean had seen in days. Gabriel smiled. Not smirked, not scoffed. His smile was faint, but warm and sincere, even a bit inhibited. His lips budged weirdly when he tried to keep the reaction in check, but he couldn't help the smile spreading on his face.

"All right, hotshots. Then you're meeting the fans that won a writing competition. And then, dunno... Hospital maybe?"

"Why would I go to a hospital?"

Garth gasped and petrified, but said nothing. Dean hesitantly took the tablet which was handed to him by Gabriel.

"My little insane bro keeps saying you don't read enough and yep, he is right. Check DailyScan."

"Oh yeah, 'cause a scandal sheet is a piece of reading worth a damn..."

The webpage was jam-packed with ads, catchy captions and photos. Some of them showed some kind of a scuffle on a red carpet, a man with a gun aiming at Dean, Castiel charging at the man (Dean had to admit that Cas looked pretty fly in this short, black coat and a black shirt), some showed the attacker tackled by the angel, other showed an ambulance and a group of people kneeling around someone lying on the ground - Dean among them, shouting, with his face pale and eyes widened in horror. Winchester tapped one of the headlines to read the whole article. There wasn't much to read, though. A photostory that unfolded before his eyes was clear-cut: an assault during some kind of a ceremony, Cas protecting Dean and getting shot while trying to overpower the gunman.

"And Iiiiiiiiiiiiieeiiiiiiiii will aaaaaalways love yoouuuuuuuouhouhouhouuu" Gabriel crooned in a burlesque, high-pitched tone, trying to restrain a chuckle.

Dean's heart fluttered in a moment of panic. Soon enough he realized that this wounded bodyguard was probably a dummy, just like Samuél in the first universe. He was starting to get that Gabriel had no intention to harm his little brother. Besides, even if he did, he wouldn't do it this way.

"Who the hell even comes up with all this crap?" he snorted, much to Garth's horror.

"Ooouch, I wouldn't say ther's much _coming up_ involved here. Protecting you is basically what that kiddo does."

Dean tried to rub his face with his palms, but he ended up tugging at his eyebrow and nose rings, simultaneously pushing the inner part of a large labret into his gums. He groaned in unexpected pain and frustration.

"Yeah, but why does it has to be so friggin corny? I mean reliving a chick flick from the nineties? The _nineties_? Seriously?" he spazed out.

"It's only corny when it's not you, isn't it?" Gabriel suggested playfully.

"Yeah, whatever..."

Still, the bitter sting in his throat didn't go away so easily. He realized that something like this could happen any time. Of course Castiel was immune to most blades and firearms, but Dean knew too well that if he was ever attacked with a weapon that could hurt an angel as well, Castiel wouldn't hesitate to take the bullet for him.

He also knew that if it ever happened, he would never forgive himself.


End file.
